Unhaunted House
by Susan M. M
Summary: Sam and Dean Winchester check out rumors of a haunted house, and find a monster they're never seen before. Can Agent Cavennaugh catch an alien infectee without letting the Winchester brothers learn the secret of Project Threshold? (Strong T, borderline M)


**Standard Fanfic Disclaimer **that wouldn't last ten seconds in a court of law: these aren't my characters. I'm just borrowing them. I'll return them unharmed (or at least suitably bandaged) to their original copyright holders. No profit has been made or will be made from the writing of this story. I'm just building sandcastles on someone else's beach._**Threshold**_ was a science fiction drama television series that first aired on CBS in September 2005; it only lasted one season. The series focused on a secret government project investigating the first contact with an extraterrestrial species. _**Supernatural** _is a horror adventure television, which at the time of this posting had recently been renewed for its tenth season. It also premiered in September, 2005., and focuses on two brothers who hunt ghosties, ghoulies, and things that go bump in the night. This story was originally published in the fanzine Route 666 #6 from Ashton Press.

**The Unhaunted House**

by Susan M. M.

a_ Supernatural/Threshold_ crossover for Ashton Press' Route 666

**October, 2005**

Dean Winchester swore. "This place ain't haunted."

His brother Sam nodded. They'd gone to check out a haunted house in the woods in Dinwiddie county, Virginia. The house wasn't haunted, at least not by ghosts. Given the used condoms in the corner, the empty beer bottles, the cigarette butts, and roach clips on the floor, the only beings "haunting" the abandoned house were the local teenagers, who were using it as a place to make out and get high.

"Should we salt the windows and doors, just in case?" Sam asked.

"Might as well." Salt was cheap, and an ounce of prevention was well worth a pound of cure. If one of those horny teenagers decided to bring in a Ouija board for fun one night, or tried to have a séance, salting the doors and windows should keep out any spirits other than the ones they swiped from their parents' liquor cabinets.

As they sprinkled Morton's salt at all the doors and windows, the wind howled outside. It was raining tigers and wolves rather than cats and dogs. Thunder boomed; lightning flashed.

"Got an idea," Sam announced.

"Stay here and wait out the storm?" Dean asked.

Sam nodded.

"Suits me. Once we get done with this, I'll run out to the car and get the bedrolls." Dean glanced at the raggedy blanket on the floor. "We use these blankets, we'll probably catch the clap."

* * *

Agent Sean Cavennaugh led his agents through the woods. All three were big men, six feet or taller. All three wore black pants, black shirts, and Kevlar—an outfit suitable for cat burglars or special forces soldiers. They were following an infectee.

"The eggheads are safe, warm, and dry while we're out in the cold and rain," Agent Rice complained. His blond hair was plastered to his head by the rain.

"That's why we get the big bucks." Cavennaugh's tone was as dry as the weather was wet. He was a tall, handsome man with light brown hair.

Agent Hargrave muttered a four letter word he wouldn't have dared use in front of Project Threshold's director, Dr. Molly Caffrey.

"Ain't no way we're gonna find him in this, Cavennaugh. We can't see worth beans. This SOB has super-strength, probably spider-senses. We don't," Rice pointed out.

"You're not made of sugar; you won't melt," Cavennaugh retorted. "Dr. Caffrey wouldn't approve of us quitting just because it's a little tough."

Hargrave repeated his four letter word.

The man they were chasing had been human once, but no longer. He had been exposed to an alien signal—a signal that was mutating his DNA to a triple-helix pattern.

* * *

Dean and Sam were sitting in front of the fireplace, roasting marshmallows. Suddenly, the door opened. Before either brother could say anything about the wind, or make a joke about the house really being haunted, a humanoid thing rushed in.

Dean and Sam had seen some weird things over the years — ghosts, vampires, demons — but never anything like this. Dean and Sam were both over six feet tall. The humanoid was taller. Its head was nearly bald, with only a few hanks of stringy blond hair clinging to its skull here and there. Its head was huge, like an encephalitis victim on steroids. Its arms extended far beyond its sleeves, as though it had outgrown its shirt while wearing it.

Dean swore. He dropped his marshmallow stick, leapt to his feet, and reached for his shotgun. "What kind of monster is that?"

"I don't recognize it. How'd he get past the salted door?" Sam pulled his knife from the sheath as he stood. He held it, hilt up, blade down, forming a cross. "Creature of darkness, I abjure thee."

The infectee stepped forward, completely and utterly unabjured.

Dean pulled the trigger. "Let's see how you like rock salt, buster."

The rock salt didn't faze the creature in the slightest.

Sam began reciting an exorcism in Latin.

* * *

In the woods, the angel Castiel watched the three agents. Invisible to the humans, he gave a gentle nudge to Cavennaugh, sending him in the correct direction after the infectee.

The Winchester brothers had a holy destiny, but free will and destiny were so intertwined in their lives that rather than the usual comparison to weft and warp, 'twould be more honest to say in their case that free will and destiny were tangled and knotted like last year's Christmas lights. It was best to assist the Winchesters as obliquely as possible.

* * *

Dean shot at the infectee. His gun was loaded with silver bullets, but they had no effect whatsoever on the monstrous creature.

Never daring to take his eyes off the monster, Sam bent down and reached for his backpack. Going by touch alone, he retrieved a plastic water gun. Still continuing his Latin chanting, he shot holy water at the infectee.

The infectee marched forward toward the two. It swung its left arm at Dean, knocking the pistol out of its hand. It hit Sam with its right arm, shoving him onto the floor. Then it turned and faced Dean. It picked Dean up and threw him across the room.

The door opened. Cavennaugh, Rice, and Hargrave burst into the house. They aimed their guns at the infectee.

"It's over. Give up," Cavennaugh ordered it.

Roaring inhumanly, it rushed at Hargrave, knocking the African-American agent against the wall with an audible thud. Rice and Cavennaugh fired.

Their bullets had less effect on the infectee than a bee sting.

"You can't stop me. You can't stop _us_. We will remake the world in our image," the infectee predicted. "You will adapt or—"

In mid-sentence, the infectee's body imploded very messily.

Cavennaugh swore. "Not again."

"I want a shower," Rice griped.

"What the hell was that thing?" Sam demanded, picking himself up from off the floor.

"Sorry, classified." Cavennaugh tried to wipe the infectee's blood off his face. "Need to know."

"We're federal agents," Dean and Cavennaugh said simultaneously. The joint statement brought an awkward silence, as well as some curious stares.

"Agent Cavennaugh, Department of Homeland Security," he lied.

"Agent Dunham, FBI," Dean lied in return. "He's Agent Barden." He jerked a thumb at Sam.

"Rock, paper, scissors," Cavennaugh said. "Rock breaks scissors. DHS trumps FBI."

"They're lying," Rice announced. "Shawn Dunham? John Barden?"

The Winchester brothers nodded, a little worried that he'd guessed the first names of their aliases when all Dean had given were surnames.

"John Barden and Shawn Dunham are musicians with Uncle Hamish and the Hooligans," Rice announced scornfully. He aimed his gun at Dean.

Cavennaugh stepped closer to Dean. "Let's have a look at your ID." Before Dean could say yea or nay, Cavennaugh lunged toward him. One elbow went to Dean's gut, a foot came down hard on Dean's foot, and then a karate chop to the neck knocked the older Winchester brother unconscious.

Sam opened his mouth to protest. Rice turned the gun on him. Hargrave came up behind him and administered a sleeper hold.

* * *

In Washington, DC, the Winchesters were checked for signs of infection by the alien signal, and questioned under drugs.

"Well, they're human," Cavennaugh told his security team after he'd reported to Dr. Caffrey. "They're not infected." He paused, remembering what they'd said under scopolamine. "I'm not sure they're entirely sane, but they're not infected."

"Nice car they got." Rice asked, "I don't suppose we could keep the car, the way cops keep drug dealers' cars after they arrest 'em?"

Cavennaugh shook his head. "Do you know what sort of gas mileage a '67 Chevy Impala gets?"

"They aren't infected, but they saw an infectee implode. What do we do with them?" Hargrave asked.

"Catch and release, just like fishing. We put 'em back where we found 'em." Cavennaugh explained his plan. "Scopolamine creates retrograde amnesia; they won't remember the past few hours."

Hargrave and Rice grinned as they listened. Then they assisted their boss in pouring whiskey into and over the Winchesters and dumped them back at the house in the woods.

Cavennaugh took one last look at the arsenal in the trunk of the Impala. He thought about confiscating it, but then the Winchesters would _know_ something had happened. If he left their things as he had found them, then if the Winchesters remembered anything, they might think the whole thing had been a whiskey-induced nightmare. He wondered for a moment, who and what the Winchester brothers were. But only a moment - he had problems of his own and a planet to save.

* * *

Dean winced as he woke up. The sun came through the windows, painfully bright. His head ached. He saw Sam on the floor beside him, still asleep. Stretching himself awake, he rose and walked over to the window. His Impala sat in front of the house, right where he'd left it.

He went to the door, planning to go outside and water one of the trees. He stopped short. There was salt in front of the doorjamb, but that wasn't his salting. Dad had said once that salt shakers were like old telegraph operators: that each one had a unique hand, and a skilled observer could tell just by looking at a door or window who'd salted it. Neither he nor Sam had salted this door. He glanced back at his brother. One eyebrow rose. Why was Sammy sleeping on the floor? Why had he been sleeping on the floor? Why hadn't he gone out to fetch the bedrolls last night?

He stepped outside. He blinked. The sun was high. He glanced at his watch. Twelve o'five. "What the hell?"

* * *

**Author's Note:** Thanks to Lynn Harvey for assistance with _Supernatural _research and to the Facebook Science Fiction &amp; Fantasy Writers, Readers, and Artists Group for truth serum research. Any errors remaining are mine. Many thanks to Ashton Press for publishing this in their _Supernatural_ fanzine Route 666 #6.


End file.
